


Renovations

by ValueTurtle



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 14:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValueTurtle/pseuds/ValueTurtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn’t really see what the problem is. Nothing wrong with a kid roughing it in the great outdoors for a few weeks when their bedroom is in need of some repair work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Renovations

‘Doctor,’ Rose began, trailing her fingers up the back of his neck in a way that made him shiver so delightfully, ‘don’t you think you should start lookin’ into fixing up John’s room?’

 

He scoffed into his coffee, making waves lap at the side of the ceramic mug, the liquid sloshing with the force of his breath. ‘It’s only been – what, a week? Two?’ Tipping his head back, he drained the rest of his drink; the sound of the cup being placed in the sink was a quiet _clink_ , followed by the rattle of the knives and forks it disturbed.

 

‘A  _month_ ,’ she corrected, though, as always, there was suppressed humour there, lurking in the corner of her mouth.

 

The Doctor pushed himself off from the counter, moving to wrap his arms around her, hands finding her waist – softer, now, after two children and twelve years and an awful lot less running – and his chin finding that spot on her shoulder where they fit together so perfectly. They were both looking out the kitchen windows, seeing the small, green tent propped up in the backyard near the clothesline.

 

‘He loves it out there, Rose!’ He told her, turning his head slightly so he could watch her face in profile. ‘He’s got a flashlight and his Spiderman sleeping bag, and —,’

 

‘—  _an’_  it’s only a week until school starts up again,’ Rose finished the sentence, going in a very different direction to where  _he’d_ been headed. His sentence was going to circle around the fact John was having an adventure and learning good survival skills  _and_  he wasn’t stomping up and down the stairs to get water in the middle of the night. Rose prodded his arm with her finger. ‘Or do you want to be put down as the school’s contact this year?’

 

‘Oh, playing dirty, are we?’ The Doctor squeezed her, making her yelp in surprise, then giggle as he pressed kisses to her exposed neck. He sighed and let her go. ‘Usually it’s a lot more fun when you do that. And naked.’

 

Once upstairs and in John’s room, he decided that the damage wasn’t  _too_  bad. All things considered. A few broken roof tiles and water damage to the plaster - they’d put down a tarp and that had kept most of the rain out, but the walls were still warped and covered in cracked paint, and he’d promised Rose he’d fix it. Well, he’d sort of insisted on it. After a twenty minute rant about her not respecting his skills as a handy man and a bit of a sulk in the garage (he’d eaten four banana ice blocks from the outside freezer and had a stomach ache before dinner).

 

He’d have to get rid of the damaged bit of the wall, and check that the wiring and plumbing was still OK. Fresh plaster, fresh paint, and it’d be good as new.  _Better_  than new, because he would have done it with is own two hands. Not some dodgy builder who didn’t know his elbow from his spirit level.

 

The Doctor rolled up his sleeves, planning on removing some of the posters from the room. They’d gone soggy with the rain, the cheap ink running down in rivulets, and had subsequently dried into buckled, strange shapes. It was just as he had pulled down John’s favourite picture of Jupiter (turned into a watercolour nightmare) that he noticed the series of markings on the wall.

 

There weren’t many – eleven or twelve, maybe, all drawn in Sharpie – but he  _knew_  what they were. He’d watched Rose carefully flatten down John’s hair, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration; he’d seen John try to stand up tall on his tip-toes and had given him an overly stern look of warning, making the feet fall to the floor instantly. He could see the dates next to the little lines: the birthdays, and the day-after-birthdays when he insisted he’d grown another inch,  _at least_ , since he ate all his green beans for dinner and everything.

 

Rose had drawn a smiling face at one height with lines representing curling hair and her full lips. There was a speech bubble coming from its mouth saying: “Wow! Soon you’ll be bigger than mummy!”. At 46 inches up the wall  _he’d_ drawn a depiction of a New Hivarian (a sort of large, aquatic bandicoot) and in their language written a commendation on his excellent cell growth. It didn’t translate well, actually. Or, in fact, at all, now that he thought about it. But John had seemed to like the drawing, particularly the flippers.

 

The Doctor ran his hand over the markings, this very solid proof of the life he had, the lives he had helped create and protect and shape, and he had one of those…  _human_  moments. He was familiar with them now, after more than a decade, but that only meant he could notice in great detail the slightly panicky feeling in his chest; the flutter against his ribs, the one that reminded him of his single heart and how fragile it was; the stinging in his nose and eyes; the way he seemed to feel heavy and huge and infinitely tiny, all at once.

 

He had Pete Tyler on speed dial for times like these.

 

His (sort of) father-in-law arrived half an hour later, knocking tentatively on the door before coming in.

 

‘Rose said you were up here and I - oh,’ Pete said. He put his hands in his pockets as he surveyed the scene: the Doctor, crouched by the wall, staring at the height chart, his face  _very_  stoic, even if he did say so himself. ‘Right. Well. I’d better let her know that we’re going to be here a while.’

 

‘I beg your pardon?’ The Doctor said, looking up. It was still a surprise when other people didn’t make sense – he’d rather thought he’d cornered the market on that.

 

‘And we’re going to need some beer,’ Pete continued, to himself, not at all clearing up matters. ‘A keyhole saw, too, and a sheet, if Rose is anything like her mother.’ He turned towards the door, stopping at the last minute to look back over his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Doctor. Had the same problem when we renovated the kitchen last spring – had to cut out a piece of plaster about yea big,’ he gestured in the air, ‘just ‘cause Tony left some hand prints there when he was four.’

 

Later, the Doctor and his (for all intents and purposes) father-in-law enjoyed celebratory banana ice blocks and beer in the garage, hiding from an irate Rose Tyler who had discovered her son’s bedroom was covered in dust and missing a large chunk of its wall.  _And_  it was no closer to being fixed and ready for habitation than when she’d asked about it three hours prior.


End file.
